


A Short Debriefing

by Princess of Geeks (Princess)



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Cliche, Episode Related, First Time, M/M, The Warrior, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-15
Updated: 2010-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess/pseuds/Princess%20of%20Geeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack apologizes. (No real spoilers, except for "Fire and Water")</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Short Debriefing

Jack hesitated outside Daniel's apartment door, shifting his peace offering of Thai food, from the good inconvenient place across town, and the six-pack of tall Sapporos, one of the few beers he and Daniel agreed upon, so that he could free a hand to knock.

He raised his knuckles and hesitated.

_Shit, you coward,_ he thought. Hand suspended near the panels, he squared his shoulders and huffed out his breath and forced himself to rap, confidently, twice. The package of food, with a dangerously spreading oil spot on one edge of the sack's bottom crease, teetered atop the beer. He juggled the sack into the crook of his right elbow again.

There was no sound from inside.

_Shit,_ Jack thought again, his self-disgust spreading like the oil stain.

He waited. He knew Daniel was home; at least, his car was at the curb. He might have gone for an evening walk, but that was unlikely. Jack knew Daniel's habits all too well. It was late, really too late for dinner, but Daniel rarely ate early, especially after a stressful mission like this one. Yeah, Jack knew all his habits.

_Which is part of the problem._

Finally Jack set the food and the beer on the floor and pulled out his cell phone. He punched Daniel's key and waited. The phone rang; he could hear it through the door and through the phone. The machine picked up. Jack sighed.

"Hey, I'm pretty sure you're home, and I'm standing here at the door with dinner and beer. I need to talk to you. I should have called first, made sure--"

The door was yanked open. Daniel didn't even stand there to greet Jack. He was already walking down the short hall and around into the kitchen, his back a stiff rebuke.

"--you'd be home," Jack finished, lamely. "So I'll come in, then," he said, and snapped the phone shut and picked up the food and the Sapporo. Oil seeped onto his fingers.

"Shit," he muttered.

"Don't start," Daniel said.

"No, it's just, a box is leaking."

Daniel glared at him over the bar. He was methodically setting out plates and paper napkins and chopsticks. He was only banging things a little. "Right," Daniel said, dry and disbelieving.

Jack had many faults, and he'd always prided himself on being aware of them even when he was resenting other people for pointing them out. For example, he had been known, on occasion, to open his fat mouth when keeping it shut would have been the wisest course. He didn't make that particular mistake now. He consciously bit down on all things he wanted to say, to shout -- anger, apology, anguish -- and opened the leaking sack and pulled out the containers and opened them, one by one. Delicious hot smells twined up into the room. Daniel grunted, his mood softening a fraction, and started dumping from the containers onto his plate.

"You want a glass for your beer?" Daniel said, his tone grudging. But he asked.

"That'd be nice, thanks," Jack said. No overture refused at this point.

His peace offering had been accepted.

Jack relaxed a little. Enough to sit at the bar and eat, and enjoy the meal. Since Daniel had pulled out real chopsticks, he used them, even though he found them awkward and a little pretentious. But they did make you eat more slowly, made you stay aware of the taste and shape of the food, he had to admit. He found the enjoyment in that.

He poured, and refilled his glass, and downed an entire beer very quickly, earning him another glare from Daniel, which Jack ignored as he popped the top of the third silver can. Upon finishing his first can, he briefly had considered pouring into his glass from Daniel's beer, since Daniel wouldn't finish it and it would go flat before the evening was over, and that seemed a waste, but sometimes? Sharing was just not a good idea.

"Don't worry," he said, answering Daniel's glare. "I'm still gonna be sober enough when we get to the after-dinner conversation. But it's nice to take the edge off, you know?"

Daniel narrowed his eyes, and Jack watched him evaluate and discard a series of cutting rejoinders, finally choosing to say none of them and simply attack his food again.

When the containers were empty and Jack had refilled his glass one more time, he sighed and picked it up and turned toward the sofa. He sat down, then patted the cushions next to him, looking invitingly at Daniel.

Daniel, holding his can, having disdained a glass all along, peered at him, his anger perhaps blunted a bit by the terrific food, and thought it over.

Jack knew that his intended message for the evening, mutely contained in the choice of menu items, all Daniel's favorites, had already gotten through. He could tell by the slight relaxing of tension in Daniel's shoulders. So he waited, eyebrows up, looking expectantly receptive, until Daniel came and sat beside him, drinking as he sat to cover his expression.

Jack drank a little more beer, savoring the crisp bite of it, the way it tasted just as good ice cold as it did now, a little warmed from sitting out on the bar. He set his glass on the coffee table.

"Did you put the rest of the beer in the fridge?"

"Yeah," Daniel said.

"Good job," Jack said, and he laced his fingers together and put his elbows on his knees. Daniel was close; close enough that if Jack eased his right knee a little to the side it would bump Daniel's knee. But Daniel was leaning back in the cushions, avoiding Jack's line of sight as Jack was avoiding his. Daniel, Jack saw with peripheral vision, had his big can of beer cuddled against his balls.

Jack swallowed and looked at the coffee table, and at the rug under it. Focus.

"I want to apologize," he said. "I was creeped out by Teal'c's hero-worship, and by the whole setup, and I took it out on you."

Daniel inhaled and exhaled, loudly. Jack waited.

"Well," Daniel said. "That's not what I was expecting to hear."

There was a pause. Maybe Daniel hadn't been softened up by the food as much as Jack thought.

Daniel continued, and his tone was formal, "I accept your apology. Thank you."

Jack sighed. He realized, now that it was over, how much he'd been dreading that moment. He was very good at going through with things that scared him, once he grasped that the actions, whatever they were, were necessary and unavoidable. And afterwards was when he had his emotional reaction, if he had one at all.

With Daniel, he had found, he always, always had one.

His fingertips were cold, he realized. He scrubbed his hands together and set them on his thighs, palms down, stretching his wrists a little. He still wasn't looking at Daniel, but he could see the blurry silhouette of his knee, out of the corner of his eye.

Jack decided to offer a little more, see if he could crack that formal tone. Besides. There actually was more to say. He was far from done yet. So much wrong to fix, about this mission.... "Thanks for the help with the diplomatic stuff, the Jaffa language stuff, too. I needed the help. You helped."

Daniel chuckled, sad and low. "It's what I do," he said.

Jack turned to him, then, hating the sadness he was hearing, hating that he had to accept the fact that he, Jack, no one else, had put it there.

Daniel was slumped, chin nearly to his chest, thumbing the letters on the can as if he could feel them, as if they were braille and not just ink.

"I mean it," Jack said. "I was a real bastard out there and you got the brunt of it. You didn't deserve that."

Daniel raised his eyes to Jack's, and they were still sad. Why wasn't the apology enough? Why wasn't this working?

"Thanks, Jack." Daniel looked at him steadily, but without hope and without amusement. His anger was gone, but there was no renewal of his charm, or his snark, to take its place. There was only ... tiredness.

That scared Jack all over again, and he put his hand out, clutched Daniel's shoulder. He narrowed his eyes, lips parted. Daniel was warm and solid under his hand. This was wrong; yeah, the mission had sucked, Jack's behavior had sucked -- suckitude all around, suckitude on all channels.

But, the apology was out of the way; the giving of it, and Daniel receiving it -- shouldn't that have helped, a little? Didn't Daniel want that, deserve it? Wouldn't it make him feel better?

With the apology out of the way, what else was Jack supposed to do?

_Shit._

Self-awareness was a real bitch sometimes.

Jack was still staring into Daniel's face, holding his shoulder pretty tightly, and Jack must have been looking confused or suffering or something, because Daniel made a frustrated noise and got up, jerking from Jack's grasp. He paced.

"Thanks for the apology. Really. It means a lot." Daniel paced, and then he folded his arms.

_Uh oh._

Daniel stopped, suddenly, facing Jack, arms around his own middle, posture stiff.

"So, you can go. You did your duty. I appreciate the effort. Really. Thanks. And thanks for dinner. It was delicious." And Daniel smiled, a puppet-like grimace that made Jack angry. He got up. He walked over to Daniel. He wanted to wipe that fake expression right off his face. He wanted Daniel to yell at him, to call him out for his asshole behavior, to grab him, shake him, hold him by the shoulders and....

_Yeah, self awareness may be overrated._

The urge to grab Daniel, himself, to haul him in, hug him, put his lips in Daniel's hair, to pet his back, murmur to him (sorry, sorry, sorry for everything, never enough, never do enough to show you, can't show you what I really feel).

He stood there, and he had to put out a hand, not grabbing, not clutching. He rested his open hand on Daniel's shoulder. But his hand wanted skin. It crept, softly, gently, over, to cup Daniel's neck, to shake gently, like a cat would shake a kitten, with her gentle teeth.

Jack wanted to bite his lip. He resisted. It was like Daniel had a magnetism, or a unique form of gravity, that pulled him in. He fought it, sure, and he fought Daniel as a way of fighting that pull, but no matter what he did, the attraction just kept on getting stronger.

Daniel was still, and he hadn't moved his arms from around his middle, but he had turned his face away from Jack's hand, hard. Almost craning over the opposite shoulder.

Jack had a moment of clarity, of seeing the both of them, standing there, too close, too inside each others' space, standing so still. And touching.

_This can't keep happening,_ Jack thought, a little wildly.

_"Sow the wind; and reap the whirlwind...."_

"What," he asked. It was a dare, a challenge. His tone was demanding. And he realized, with a little thrill of anger tempered with fear, that he'd never pushed Daniel like this -- not while touching him, not up close, not at dusk, not on Earth, inside, surrounded by home, by soft furniture. Jack's heart started to pound.

"What is it," he elaborated, his mouth dry, his lips stiff. "I said I was sorry; that's not making a dent in what's the matter with you."

Daniel had not moved, but Jack watched the pulse in his neck. Fast. Too fast.

Daniel said, his head still turned away, "I really don't think you want to go there, do you?"

Jack almost played dumb, almost said, "Go where." But he didn't.

He sighed and took his hand away and paced, in his turn. One circuit of the comfortable, cluttered living room. Full of Daniel's stuff, Daniel's souvenirs and artifacts. Daniel collected things, like it was an addiction, like he couldn't help it. He had more knickknacks than Jack's grandmother, except these weren't Precious Moments figurines and sets of toll painted plates from the fifty states. These were things that should be in museums.

Jack paced around the bookshelves and the swords on the wall, suppressing his urge to fiddle, looking and not touching, and he stopped when he found himself against a chair near the balcony doors, both hands braced in front of him, leaning. A glance told him Daniel had sat down on the sofa. Daniel had his beer can in both hands again, and he was just looking at it.

"I think you should go," Daniel said. "You apologized; I accept.... 'Cause, I'm really tired."

Jack looked at him, over his shoulder. It was the kind of speech you should give while standing up, holding the door open politely but indomitably. The kind of speech you give to firmly eject guests at three a.m. when the party's so over and you're not being a martyr. But Daniel was delivering it sitting, his body screaming defeat, sunk into the sofa. As Jack watched, he raised the big silver can of beer and drank. Jack watched the muscles work in his throat.

Daniel lowered his empty can and met Jack's gaze without surprise, as if he knew Jack would be looking at him. Without having to check the distance, he set the can gently on the table in front of him. His gaze was dark and steady.

"Really," he repeated. "I think you should go."

Jack stood up straight. He put his hands in his pockets. "What if I don't want to. What if I'm not done... talking."

Not waiting for Daniel's answer or even for his reaction, he turned and made his way into the kitchen and pulled out another Sapporo and cracked it open. He took a gulp right there at the fridge, the can cold against his lips, the beer colder in his mouth. It tasted great; even heavenly. Cold and clean.

He stood there, looking at the door to Daniel's freezer, feeling the cool air from the fridge soak into his shirt. Thinking it over.

He had to own up to his own recent, stupid "fight or fuck" behavior. He wasn't actually all that fond of lying to himself, even about this. Despite all that self-knowledge, he was really, really good at behaving badly for long periods of time. But, Daniel used to call him on it. Until lately. And so, he had to face the unpleasant fact that maybe he'd worn Daniel down, finally. Maybe Daniel had gotten tired of his bullshit. Too tired to fight it anymore. Too tired to care.

The idea that he'd worn Daniel down, that he could actually _do_ that, scared the shit out of him.

Daniel, defeated, was not something that belonged in any universe Jack wanted to inhabit. Daniel had come back from Sha're's death more fully and more strongly than anyone had had a right to expect. Jack had watched him carefully. He'd flailed around for a while, and then, he'd grieved, in the good way (and oh how Jack understood that there were good ways and bad ways to learn to live with the death of someone you loved; Jack could fucking teach a master class on that, except for the part about how he never would, ever). And then Daniel had finally, finally come around to the stage where the memories he kept of Sha're were actually welcome. Come around to where he could talk about her, reminisce without wincing. And he'd found a new purpose, in the quest for Kheb, and then he'd settled back into the team again. This was true. Jack had watched it happen. It had been good.

And Jack had been grateful. Humbly, embarrassed-ly grateful. Grateful in a way that made him say fragmentary shamefaced prayers again. Prayers that didn't even have words, but were more echoes of happiness, moments appreciated, captured and noted: Daniel, excited about a find; Daniel, achieving a breakthrough in a negotiation; Daniel, solving a puzzle. Daniel, happy again.

And the closer the team got again, as Daniel recovered, the weirder Jack's reactions had gotten, he had to admit. _Fight or fuck._

The job was hard. Incredibly, weirdly hard. The job had stress. Of course they all reacted, in their individual ways. And he and Daniel had always bickered, to a greater or lesser degree. He knew all about that. But he had to own up to the fact that since Sha're had died, there was one less barrier, in his own mind, to giving in to this ... thing he had for Daniel. This unbearable, yet unavoidable thing. It made him crazy, from time to time. And this latest mission was proof he couldn't ignore that it was making Daniel crazy, too.

Even as he wanted to deny it, push it away, disavow responsibility, this defeat written in Daniel's body was because of him. This was his fault. Because he'd been a bastard. And not just on the last mission. Yeah, he'd dragged himself over here and apologized, for his latest screw up. But that wasn't enough. Daniel knew it, and now he knew it. And it was clear that Daniel wasn't going to paper this over any more -- how Jack made him feel. And so Jack couldn't paper it over any more either.

So. What was he going to do about it?

Another cold drink of Sapporo. A gentle shove at the fridge door, closing it. Another run down the old familiar checklist -- do you, or don't you? Does he, or doesn't he? The regs. The team. The risk.

And Jack almost laughed at himself, because right now? Stacked up against the despair sitting on the sofa out there? The despair that he had caused? Not really a contest. He leaned his head until his forehead rested on the cold metal of the freezer door.

Yeah, he had his answer. So, then. How big were his _cojones,_ actually?

Time to find out.

Carrying his beer, he turned and calmly walked to the sofa and sat down, next to his nemesis, his doom, his destiny (chuckling to himself again), and picked up his empty glass and poured, tilting the glass to get a nice flat head. It made him remember Nem, and the memory thing, and Daniel's kidnapping.

He set down the can, and met Daniel's eyes and raised the glass and sipped, the friendly ritual gesture evoking not even a flicker in Daniel's eyes.

"Remember Nem? And Omaraca?"

Daniel frowned, just slightly. "Yeah, I remember." His expression said, _"So what?"_ or maybe _"Are you nuts?"_

Jack plowed on, turning and setting his glass on the table again, turning back to face Daniel, settling his elbow and his hip comfortably in the cushions.

"We held a wake for you, you know. At my place. And did you hear what I did at the wake?"

Daniel frowned and hitched his glasses against the bridge of his nose with one finger, a gesture Jack had, himself, performed too many times to count. Jack watched him think back, collecting himself into rumination with a slight shrug of the shoulders, a slight tilt of the head.

Daniel started out dutifully enough: "I heard you were upset, that the false memories Nem installed were causing all three of you quite a bit of stress, and that you reacted badly. But that was the, the crack you needed to understand that they were false, right? I guess, I'm asking, yeah, I remember Nem, do you have a point?" Daniel was talking faster and faster as his speech went on, as if there were too many thoughts in there and they were colliding with each other in their race to emerge.

It made Jack smile. Because it was more like the Daniel he wanted to see -- engaged, thinking. Not sad.

"Yeah, I was upset. I was so upset that you were dead that I busted out the window of Hammond's car with a hockey stick and threatened to retire again."

Daniel raised his eyebrows.

"Guess you hadn't heard that part, huh?"

"Not put quite like that, no."

Jack looked down at his hands. How to do this, exactly, now that it had come right down to it? He felt strangely calm. But he could feel his heart pounding again, feel it in his throat. _Fight or fuck...._

He reached out slowly, deliberately, and put his hand on Daniel's leg. Daniel flinched, then froze. Jack looked up to meet his eyes.

"I've really done a lousy job of managing this. I know that. I should have had you transferred, or transferred myself, a long time ago. But I couldn't stand to do that. Very selfish of me. A bad management decision, a bad command decision. But I couldn't imagine doing what we do, without you."

"Jack--" Daniel said, and Jack waited, but there was no more. Just Daniel looking at him like Jack had just said or done the most shocking thing imaginable, like Daniel was too stunned to move.

_Which might actually be true,_ Jack thought. He waited. He waited some more. He left his hand there on Daniel's warm muscle while he waited. And, as Daniel was still doing his confused carp impression, Jack drew breath to speak, but then Daniel said, all in a rush, "Can I kiss you? Because that's what I want to do, very much, but I think I should ask first even though you've got your hand on my thigh because this is..."

Jack listened to him babble on, but after Daniel asked his first question Jack smiled and started leaning, tilting his head, and he closed his eyes. Because the answer was yes.

And Daniel's hands came around his head and Daniel pressed his mouth to Jack's.

It was warm and clumsy and full of small movements, and Jack wanted to smile some more, did smile, but then he stopped because that kind of ruined the kiss. And he sooo did not want to ruin this kiss. He groped for Daniel's head and found it, and they pulled each other close, kissing and tasting.

Daniel's mouth was warm and mobile and wet. His lips were soft. Stunningly soft. They both moaned a little, surprise and the ramping up of lust. Warmth coursed through Jack, warmth and amazement. It melted all that was left of the anger, all the itchy resentment that had made him say those shitty things. _This_ was what he needed. This was the itch that nothing else could scratch, the empty space that nothing else could fill -- Daniel's touch, Daniel's taste.

Jack realized he was holding Daniel's head a little too tightly and tried to let go a little, and Daniel, mouth still pressed to his, protested. He had one hand at Jack's nape, the other pressed against his back. And Daniel, who had been kissing gently and carefully, apparently started to lose it a little. Daniel opened his mouth, and Jack got even warmer. Daniel kissed him intensely, and pressed against him, urging him down, and so Jack held on to Daniel and leaned back and then they were seriously making out, lying on Daniel's sofa.

The long heavy length of him was pushing the breath out of Jack, pressing against his chest like that, and Jack didn't fucking care. The weight and strength of him felt perfect, and now it was like a contest to see who could climb into the other's mouth hardest and fastest.

Still kissing, Jack slid his palms down Daniel's back to Daniel's ass, and squeezed, and Daniel groaned. He leaned up and back, and yet Jack didn't want to lose his mouth, didn't want to stop kissing, and Jack, reflex, bent his head up, seeking Daniel's mouth, and opened his eyes.

Daniel, glasses askew, face flushed, mouth gorgeously, sexily wet, had braced himself on straight arms and was looking down at Jack. Jack swallowed and squeezed Daniel's ass again and let his own legs part a little so Daniel could settle more comfortably between them. One of Jack's feet was still on the floor, because the couch wasn't all that wide. As Daniel slid a little deeper against Jack's pelvis, he closed his eyes and made a choked sound. Jack smiled and pressed up with his hips, rubbing their dicks together.

Yeah, he'd have to say that the apology was going pretty well, now. Surprising as this was. He could sign up for this. Definitely.

Daniel opened his eyes again. He was panting and pressing back against Jack's groin. He licked his lips. But he was still able to speak, apparently. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.

"What does it look like?"

Wrong thing to say. Daniel swore and hitched and got a knee under himself, nearly clobbering Jack's balls, and he put one hand on his erection and tried to adjust it to a more comfortable angle. "Dammit, Jack, cut it out. This is too serious, for both of us, for you to--"

And then Daniel cut himself off and heaved to his feet, still gripping the bulge in his jeans. It was like being hit with the cold blast from the freezer, losing Daniel's warmth and weight like that. Jack's head was ringing. He felt tossed in a blanket. He sat up, wincing, and clambered to his feet and followed Daniel to where he'd stopped to gaze vacantly at the bookshelves. He gently put his hands on Daniel's shoulders, and turned him. Daniel wanted to resist, Jack could feel it, but he didn't. He let Jack turn him and pull him close.

"It's like I can't not joke. Sorry about that, too...."

Daniel leaned against him, but he didn't hug him back. His hand was against Jack's dick, between Jack's dick and Daniel's. Jack tightened his arms.

Jack said, "Yes, I want this. And yes, I know all the reasons not to do it. Why do you think I've been in such a bad mood for the last ... oh, year? Or three?" Daniel snorted. Jack thought that was a good sign. He closed his eyes in relief, because as he kept talking, Daniel's lips came softly, warmly, against his neck. "It's a bad idea, a terrible idea. But ... yes. I want it. I want you."

He held Daniel close and pressed his face against Daniel's, smelling the clean scent of his hair, the beer on his breath, the ginger starting to come through his skin. He felt Daniel sigh again.

"We'll make it work somehow. We will," Jack whispered into Daniel's ear, and he didn't know if he was promising it to Daniel or to himself.

Daniel's arms came around him again, and squeezed once, and then Daniel let go and turned away, but that was okay, because he was heading for to the bedroom. Jack followed. Daniel was shedding his clothes as he went.

Jack felt just a little worried, because Daniel wasn't talking, and that didn't seem like Daniel, to not talk, but maybe bedroom Daniel was totally different than any Daniel Jack had ever seen before. And the little bit of worry was quickly swamped by the enthusiasm of his body, which was once again transmitting those little incoherent prayers of gratitude.

Inside the bedroom, Daniel was standing like a carving, his fingertips curled around his glasses, which he'd just folded on the nightstand. His back was to Jack, and Jack's breath caught at the sight of all that skin, the touchable curve of his ass, the half-glimpsed erection sheltered behind his thigh. This wasn't a stolen glance in the shower. This was sex, about to happen. This was the real thing.

Still not looking at him, Daniel got a knee onto the bed and turned and lay against the dark, piled-up pillows. The bed was neatly made, Jack saw, and for some reason that made him sad. Daniel lay there and watched Jack, one hand still cupping his dick, as Jack took off his clothes and his watch and let them all drop to the floor. Last of all he pulled his dogtags over his head and dropped them, too, and at that, Daniel winced.

Jack said, "You're thinking too much," and he climbed onto the purple bedspread and climbed right up over Daniel and lay down on him, kissing him again. God, it was good -- hot and alive and so _much_ of Daniel -- big and solid, all his soft skin and firm muscle, the wet depths of his mouth, the stab of his erection. Jack kissed and kissed and pressed his dick against Daniel's and groaned when Daniel spread his legs for him, as if mirroring Jack's actions out there on the sofa.

_Daniel._

Jack realized how hard his kissing was getting, how demanding, and he pulled back a little, trying for more sweet and less lust, telling himself to make it last, to enjoy it. He was cupping Daniel's face as he kissed, and Daniel had his arms around Jack and was moving against him, rippling strength. Pleasure ran along Jack's body, starting to build now, coiling in his groin. He kissed the corner of Daniel's mouth, kissed along his cheek, pressed his face into the hollow of his neck, breathing, tasting. It was almost too good, too much.

They moved together for a little, rocking, undulating, and Jack knew he could come like this -- surprise! -- and he found that anything Daniel wanted to do now would be enough, and more than enough. He had no need to do any particular thing, except to keep holding Daniel close, keep kissing, make love to him anyway that developed.

He should say that out loud, he supposed -- wasn't this the time you should talk? Agree on.... a plan of attack? He made himself smile at the thought, and then freed his mouth from Daniel's and raised himself on his elbows.

Daniel looked a little stunned, still, at the way the evening was turning out, Jack figured. Daniel frowned, too earnest, too worried. Definitely thinking too much, Jack decided. Thinking would be for later. He'd come this far and he wasn't going to back out and he wasn't going to let Daniel think himself out, either.

Daniel said, "Is this... do you..."

Jack pressed a quick kiss to his mouth. "Shh, please. Can we not talk now? Can we just..." Jack swallowed, looking into Daniel's troubled, beautiful eyes. He wanted to do this right. It was important to do this right. And he truly didn't care what they did, just that they did it, and hopefully kept doing it, and he did have an idea, a plan, after all -- for first times, simplest was probably best.

He pressed his torso harder against Daniel's, and took his mouth again. He kissed intently, and got an arm around Daniel's shoulders and turned them a little, worming his other hand between them, finding Daniel's erection and starting a gentle squeeze and pull. Actions louder than words and all that....

Daniel's response was gratifying and immediate. He moaned, and his mouth softened, and he thrust with his hips, pushing into Jack's grip, not stopping, and then Jack felt Daniel's hand close around his own dick, and then Jack stopped thinking at all for a while. And hoping Daniel could stop, too.

It was quick -- hands moving, trapped between them, legs tangling. Warmth between them, chill air on their backs. And kissing -- deep intense kissing that never let up.

Daniel was gasping and moaning into his mouth, and then Jack felt it -- felt the seize and spasm, the moment of hesitation in the movement of Daniel's hips, and then he was coming, calling "_Jack, Jack"_, and their lips came apart and Jack pushed hard into Daniel's erratic grip and he was coming too -- a wet warm messy blur, so right, so good, to feel this. So goddamn overdue.

Jack lay there in Daniel's embrace, feeling his breathing slow, feeling Daniel's heartbeat against his.

He didn't want to move. He didn't want to speak. But he knew he'd have to do both. He tightened his hands, on Daniel's hip and on his shoulder. He kissed the nearest skin -- it was Daniel's neck, and Daniel murmured a little and turned to him, moving a hand around Jack's back, wiping a little. Jack smiled. Yeah, they were a mess. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter at all. They lay there a little longer.

Daniel said, "Jack," and Jack sighed and shifted back a little and Daniel got up on his elbow, and he was blinking down at Jack, looking so naked without his glasses -- like glasses were part of his clothing.

Daniel sighed and gazed down at him; and, dammit, his gaze slowly focused into that blue laser beam that had backed down politicians on a dozen worlds, including this one.

Jack winced a little. "We're gonna talk some more now, right?"

That, finally, blissfully, made Daniel smile. Just a little. But his eyes were still worried. All he said was, "Stay, please. Sleep here. Can you?"

A rush of emotion, as strong as the lust of earlier, kept Jack at a loss for words for a moment.

Daniel. Hardly talking. Daniel, here, in bed, so naked. So real.

Jack cleared his throat. He raised his hand and stroked, gently, the corner of Daniel's mouth, then moved up to stroke the delicate crows' feet. The skin there, beside Daniel's eye, was so tender and soft.

Jack said, "So I guess that means you accept my apology, huh."

Daniel smiled, and he said, "Sure, Jack. Yes. I always accept your apology. I'm just a sucker like that." And it made Jack frown, and then Daniel hitched away for a moment, reaching for the coverlet, swiping at his stomach, then Jack's, with a corner of it, then sliding his hand under the matching pillows and dragging down the bedding, exposing the sheets. When he figured out what Daniel was doing, Jack helped.

When they were settled, mostly under the covers, cuddled up again, mostly wiped up, Daniel said, "So you think you can handle this?" A sweep of his hand, indicating their skin, the crumpled bed clothes, everything that had just happened.

"I guess we're about to find out." It was impossible not to punctuate that with a another kiss, this time to Daniel's hair, which still smelled of clean shampoo and ginger.

"I guess we are." Daniel smiled against Jack's shoulder -- Jack felt it -- but even as they relaxed together into sleep, Jack could hear him thinking.

He was still thinking when Jack groggily surfaced, like a whale needing to breathe, in the middle of the night, to find the lamp on and Daniel propped beside him, reading. Jack parked a hand on Daniel's knee and sank back into dreams again -- warm, friendly dreams, comforting in their vagueness.

And Daniel was still thinking, when Jack staggered into the kitchen the next morning, drawn, again, by that personal gravity well that Daniel carried around with him, repelled by the cold empty sheets and forced out of bed to find him, but Daniel looked his way and smiled, around and despite the thoughts Jack could see in his eyes. So Jack folded him close and kissed him "good morning," and Jack closed his eyes and let himself imagine, just for a moment, all the ways that this could go right.

end.


End file.
